


Chair-thoughts of John Watson

by Rubyjooce



Series: Furniture ensembles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyjooce/pseuds/Rubyjooce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had to stop himself, often in fact, and lock his eyes onto the grubby pile of the carpet, really, it just wouldn’t do to get a hard-on in front of anybody,  let alone Sherlock, and certainly not when thinking about- God; dare he say it?- chair sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chair-thoughts of John Watson

Chair-thoughts of John Watson

He had to stop himself, often in fact, and lock his eyes onto the grubby pile of the carpet, really, it just wouldn’t do to get a hard-on in front of anybody,  let alone Sherlock, and certainly not when thinking about- God; dare he say it?- chair sex.

Heaven help him, but when Sherlock strode about their living room nattering on about the glazes used in porcelain china factories, or the difference between the shape of a ground-squirrel‘s and a tree- squirrel’s scratch marks- whatever it was, he would parade his expensively clad derrière right in front of John’s nose, the black fabric gliding across what John imagined to be gleamingly pale and hitherto untouched thighs. 

John would be doing something benign and innocent- reading about the local fête, maybe, or scoping out the new movie reviews- but then his flatmate would call his attention and his eyes would glint, and then he’d stand up, and if John didn’t know better he’d say that Sherlock veritably _swung_ his bony hips- nothing short of demanding, really, that John gaze and gaze and gaze at the dark creases of the denim, or cotton, or... oh, _oh_ , velvet.

Oh but if those pants were to just- _vanish, goddammit_! - John could finally _see_ \- was there hair on his thighs, did his arse-cheeks have dimples-? Dear God- what did his cock look like? It sounded like a stupid question, even when he asked it very quietly and in a very private corner of his brain; since he had the same bloody parts he should just take a gander in the mirror or something; but he knew, at the same time, that it wasn’t just any man’s cock, and it certainly wasn’t his own- it was _Sherlock’s._

Well -he refused to dwell on that particular thought any longer- he’d rather like to continue to delude himself about his sanity, _thankyouverymuch_.

Tonight was going terribly; even if he did say so himself. He had discovered the plaintive remains of a petrified squirrel -“I _told_ you John, last week, remember? It was really rather interesting, but I thought you were paying attention?”-in between the beer and the tub of butter. Instead of getting angry, like he should have, Sherlock had said something funny- and John had let it slide, because he knew there wasn’t any malice in it, and John was laughing with him, making them tea, and sitting across from the long man while he recounted a story about one of his homeless compatriots. It had been carrying on quite domestically until Sherlock had fallen into one of his thoughtful silences.

That in itself wasn’t bad; John could update his blog, and glance surreptitiously at those fingers balanced just so against those lips- eyes faraway and relaxed off into the middle distance.

Until Sherlock had stood up, left the room without so much as a word, and then returned. In his silky dressing gown. In sleep pants that hung low. Dangerously low. So low, in fact, that through the gaps of the dressing gown John could see the lines of his hips, happily skiing down his lower belly into the infuriating, _low_ , waistband of his trousers.

The grit between his laptop keys had never been so interesting.

He imagined the stupid machine on the floor. This would clear his lap, which could be much better occupied. He imagined himself with a lap full of Consulting Detective; thighs- _those thighs_ \- either side of his own, heat burning between them, and maybe the detective would place both hands either side of John’s head, and bear down on him with startling eyes so close and so _focused_ \- and the dressing gown, superfluous rag, would be tugged away from the chest above him so that John could see skin, _more, more_ , _skin_ \- and then Sherlock would smirk just a tiny bit, and say his name in the voice that reverberated to John’s very bones .

“John.”

Yes , yes, just like that- and then John’s hand would snake down the planes of that body and into the dark crotch, and it would be a tight squeeze, them on one armchair, but that would just mean that they would have to be so damned close to each other.

“John?”

And then he would finally, _finally_ , have his hand on meltingly hot, hard Sherlock and he would see the man’s eyes cloud with pleasure and maybe he’d moan, or thrust his cock into the caresses of John’s fingers and every spark of heat would bloom and coil low in John’s abdomen too-and oh so many things to do with his fingers; stroke gently, run just the tips over the length, perhaps thumb the slit, slowly, then faster, sweeping against the fraenulum, hearing Sherlock pant and gasp, then fisting and tugging forwards, jerking Sherlock closer and closer- _oh God_.

“Goodness gracious, John, what _has_ the laptop done to anger you; you’re positively growling at it.”

John started violently at the sound of Sherlock’s amused voice. He wasn’t even looking in his direction; well, thank goodness for small mercies. He cleared his throat and tried to refocus on choosing a new font to apply to the theme of his blog page.

“Thinking of a lapful of me, John?”

John’s eyes were on Sherlock so fast he cricked his neck. He unclenched his nervously biting teeth.

“Sorry, what?” he tried not to sound as though he was missing the bottoms of all his vital organs.

“I said I was thinking that wasn’t very tactful of me, John, because I seem to have startled you.”

“Oh.” John scrubbed a hand down over his face. “No, er....”

Sod it all, he was hearing things. Get out, John, before you do something stupid. He snapped the lid of his laptop closed.

“I’m, er, just going...”he fumbled for an excuse, “-going to stretch out my shoulder.” He cleared his throat.

“A bit tense, is it?” Sherlock said lightly.

John struggled down a blush and nodded lamely.

He stood up and hurried from the room, his laptop held stiffly in front of him.

His room was blessedly Sherlock-free. He tossed himself face down on the bed and contemplated smothering himself with the pillow.

He needed to kip, or maybe have a shower. Or maybe...

Almost dejectedly John felt down his body, and yes, he was still hard. And Sherlock, his lustful brain supplied, was still in that maddening dressing gown, wearing those maddening trousers. Oh yes, now was _definitely_ the time to wank.

John hesitated for a moment; a picture of Sherlock languishing next to him rising unbidden into his minds-eye, but now was not the time to imagine him joining him in his bed. _Those_ times, he wished they numbered fewer, when he dared to think of the whole man curling into him, dared to think about what the first push of his hands into that hair, the tentative strokes to his face, over his brow and over the quintessential cheekbones- when he thought like that he didn’t come to the image of a sweat slicked body; he came to the dream of kisses, and tender, tender looks.

John huffed, trying to shake the tendrils of thought away. Sherlock. That chair. On his lap. Naked on his lap. Oh yes, that was better. Much, much better, he could see it all in his mind’s eye now:

Sherlock was panting, hard, breath pushing his chest towards john with every breath. His jutting cock was almost obscene; so traitorously betraying the understated man with its arousal. That broad chest, a playground of skittering shadows, a landscape of different sounds of pleasure; nip at the sternum, a low rumble, lick just below his pectoral, a shuddering hiss- a tongue and a tease to a peaked nipple; a long groan, and a shove of those hips against his crotch.

John ran his hands down the arching neck, feeling goosebumps rise in their wake. Sherlock pushed down harder, trying to align their cocks so they could rut. But John restrained his hips, sucking love-bites on his belly, breathing over the nipples and spreading an eager hand across the apple of Sherlock’s arse cheek. Sherlock’s hand tugged John’s other hand away from his hip and pushed two fingers into his mouth- laving at them with his tongue. John groaned harshly. After a few minutes of overly suggestive sucking and slurping, John pulled his fingers out and trailed them down the planes of Sherlock’s back.

With fingers barely touching he traced the seam of his scrotum, working backwards until the blunt tip of his index finger breached Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock keened, tossing his curly head back. John worked slowly, so very slowly. The first finger sunk in and wriggled gently, curling against the tight walls and only brushing the edges of the sensitive prostate. John languidly thrust in and out a few times before sliding in a second finger to join the first. Sherlock nestled his forehead in the crook of John’s neck, one arm gripping the armrest of the seat, the other hand tight in John’s hair; both quivering. John twisted his fingers in a gentle screwing motion, nothing if not a thorough medical man. John turned his face into the snuggery of Sherlock’s dishevelled curls, breathing in the scent of sweat and over-bright shampoo, revelling in the softness. He began to thrust in earnest, carefully maintaining a light touch on the prostate, but an unremitting rhythm. He could hear Sherlock’s stifled moans against his throat, where he was pressing rushed kisses.

The hand that was inside Sherlock withdrew, and circled around the base of Sherlock’s cock; squeezing slightly to stave off on the orgasm. Sherlock complained with a strangled whine.

“I’m going to fuck you now...” John whispered against the dream-Sherlock’s ear, pressing a kiss into the hair.

The air was rent apart by the sound of Sherlock unzipping John’s jeans. The long fingers fumbled with the impossibly many layers of clothing until they prized John’ already pre-come slicked cock, smearing the make-shift lubricant right to the base.

At this point in the fantasy, John allowed himself to do two things that he had tried to stave off on- he let his eyes grace the imagined Sherlock’s own. He drank in the delusion of changeable eyes swimming with lust, with sparks of desire, with the nebulous shadows of unspoken intimacy.

He entered him, the reality of cloth and tensing muscles fading to the singular feeling of overwhelming pressure - overwhelming pleasure- the feeling that came not from the squeezing around his cock, but from the knowledge of being connected to Sherlock.

As he reached the precipice, toes curling and balls pulling tight, anticipation for the crash egging him on, he allowed himself the second indulgence- in his mind’s eye, Sherlock’s tempestuous scrutiny was still fixed on him. He reached up, a hand carding though the tousled fringe before nudging behind his neck to pull him into a desperate mangling of lips, bruising in their passion. John felt the plundering of tongue that claimed unequivocally; and came, spilling hot and fast into the tunnel of his hand.

John  gingerly wiped his hands with the waiting tissues. He just lay there for a while, utterly boneless. It was eventually the gnawing pang of hunger that pushed him from the mattress; and he needed to start early if he wanted to convince Sherlock to eat something too.

He was just re-tucking his shirt when a gentle knock sounded on his door.

“Sherlock?” He called. “What is it?”

There was a groaning of hinges and the door opened  to reveal an open-collared detective, proffering  a steaming cup of tea.

“Sherlock?” John frowned at the cup. “Is that for me?”

Sherlock smirked. His eyes guarded but dangerous.

“Just thought you might like a little, refreshment, after your ...exertions.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hehehe. Had fun? Please let me know :) What was your favourite bit?


End file.
